


The Sudden Stop at the End

by Ewebie



Series: When You Were Young and Less Amazed [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Allusions to Johnlock, Allusions to Jolto, Angst, Gen, Jolto, Jolto angst, POV John Watson, This is a straight up missing scene filler that's meant to hurt, This is not a fix-it...
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-27
Updated: 2015-09-27
Packaged: 2018-04-23 16:10:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4883251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ewebie/pseuds/Ewebie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The missing scene between John entering Sholto's room and everyone returning downstairs to the celebration.</p><p>
  <i>“I believe I am your doctor.” He felt Mary’s hand slip from his shoulder as he flicked the jacket over his forearm and gave a firm nod. It wasn’t hard for him to imagine the struggle it had been for James to admit that he needed help, albeit professional and medical. As calm as his voice had been, as neutral his expression, John could see the strain, the internal war, the quagmire of self-reproach. Soldiers don’t show weakness. Commanding officers don’t need assistance. James Sholto did not ask for help.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Sudden Stop at the End

**Author's Note:**

> I woke up with the need to burn in angsty hell... please join me.

“I believe I am your doctor.” He felt Mary’s hand slip from his shoulder as he flicked the jacket over his forearm and gave a firm nod. It wasn’t hard for him to imagine the struggle it had been for James to admit that he needed help, albeit professional and medical. As calm as his voice had been, as neutral his expression, John could see the strain, the internal war, the quagmire of self-reproach. Soldiers don’t show weakness. Commanding officers don’t need assistance. James Sholto did not ask for help.

And for that reason, John felt both reverent and reluctant as he followed James into the room. Sherlock took his morning jacket without so much as a glance, and John set about cuffing his sleeves. Light colors for his morning suit might just be something he regretted yet. Sherlock extended an open palm for the cufflinks as well, and John saw him pocket the baubles out of the corner of his eye. He very nearly stripped the band from his finger, the metal too shiny and still foreign on his hand. On his dominant hand.

“Mary, will you go call an ambulance? Meet the paramedics and bring them up here?”

James was, and always had been a private man. And battlefield medicine was not a spectator sport. It had been burdensome enough to let him in; baring scars to his Captain’s new wife was mercilessly low on anyone’s agenda. It was, after all, the first time John would see them properly. And being victim of attempted murder was blow enough to James’ pride.

“Of course.” Mary pressed a quick peck to his cheek as she exited the room.

One less battle to be had. Mary was, of course, a nurse. She could, feasibly, be of help. No need to stain her dress though. No need to strain their new commitment either. Sherlock shut the door softly in her wake and disappeared into the loo.

“James,” John held out a hand.

The flinch was subtle, but John saw it. Disarming when injured was not a natural predilection, and an action they shared views on. But it wouldn’t do for the paramedics to find the side arm. The reluctance was clear, and John arched a brow, meeting James’ glare until the sig was relinquished to his care. John replaced the safety and released the clip, slipping it into his pocket and tucking the gun into the back of his waistband beneath the cover of the waistcoat.

Sherlock was back, an armful of towels in his clutches. He handed John a warm, damp flannel that smelled slightly of soap and John was instantly grateful. “Ta.” He ducked into the loo and scrubbed his hands clean, accepting another towel as he emerged. Sherlock had removed the suitcase from the bed. “On the bed, on your stomach.”

There was a flicker of humor. The smallest recollection of similar orders in far different situations. Maybe John should have considered that it was something Sherlock would see, something Sherlock would notice, and think over, dissect and agonize over for weeks. But by now, with the work, John was an extension of Sherlock, two arms of the same machine; it stood to reason that where John’s work was concerned, Sherlock was an extension of him. A unit. Of sorts. And anything to which John Watson was privy, so too was Sherlock Holmes. And that was certainly something that James Sholto instinctively understood.

So James complied, slowly, methodically, carefully. Cautious of his bad arm, perhaps even considerate of the new injury. It didn’t escape John’s notice that he hid his left side in the folds of the linens. Ever prideful. He should know better. Scars were stories, bonds of camaraderie and marks of honor, not something to be shrouded with shame.

“Idiot,” John murmured.

He settled on Sholto’s right, taking his pulse first, watching the slow and even rise and fall of James’ back, counting both in his head. Too fast; too slow. Pain limited? Probably. Stoics, the lot of them. They’d bite back the cry for help that would save their own lives, wouldn’t they? Wouldn’t ask for a cup of water in the desert.

“Still seems disrespectful,” James muttered.

“What does?” John ran his finger along the belt, looking for the breach, the rupture, the violation that pierced the leather and skin and muscle with aims of ruination.

“Not to die when they’ve gone to so much trouble.”

“It’s insulting to think me so unskilled as to let you drop dead in the middle of my wedding day. How bad is the pain?” He found it. Just left of the spinal column. Of course it would have to avoid the cord to be delayed. Aiming right would have been far more deadly. More likely to hit the vessels. Whether or not the kidney or the spleen was nicked would remain to be seen. Depended on the weapon, the depth, the direction.

“I’ll survive.”

“That’s the spirit.”

Sherlock passed John a towel at the wordless ask of an extended hand.

“Pressure and time,” John mumbled to himself as he contemplated the situation. “Sherlock? Buttons.”

Sherlock nodded and slid a hand beneath Sholto’s chest, deftly seeking and freeing the buttons on his jacket, purposely bypassing the belt. “When you’re ready, John.”

“On three.”

James grunted when the buckle came free, though if in response to the shift in pain or John’s hand pressing firmly, forcefully against the wound was difficult to tell. John murmured a scant bit of praise as he lifted the towel for a rapid check before reapplying pressure. It wasn’t bleeding as though it’d hit an artery, or any major vessel, but the abdomen could be deceiving. He dipped his hand around James’ waist, feeling for his spleen then balotting the kidney against the steady pressure of his other hand. They both seemed intact. James wasn’t fully guarding his abdomen. It wasn’t rigid… At least, not yet. He craned his neck, no sign of blood pooling in the gutters either, though it was probably too soon. The attempt was deadly enough. Too slow though. Too slow on both occasions. Too arrogant. Too uneducated in the anatomy of the human body. Too dismissive of the skills of a medic.

“The human abdomen can third space up to three litres of fluid before intra-abdominal pressure will tamponade the leak.”

“Thank you, Sherlock,” John said gently. “But you’d know bloody well before that.”

“Oh?”

John finally took a moment to see the scars. Burns left terrible scars. Grafts never really colored right with the paired skin next to it. God, it was his whole side. The pruned and pink flesh trailed down from his forehead to dip into the waistband of his trousers. His left arm, the left side of his neck, part of his chest and back. Not a claymore. Not a direct blast either; no way the ear would survive that. It looked like… Like a petrol burn, oil maybe. “Blood in the peritoneal cavity. It’s quite painful.”

“Ah,” Sherlock hummed.

“Probably not as painful as a meat dagger,” James whispered.

John winced and huffed out a laugh in the same moment. The corner of Sherlock’s mouth twitched into the phantom of a smile. “Meat dagger,” Sherlock echoed in amused pique.

John bit back a giggle. “Hush.” He didn’t know who exactly he needed to be silent, but now was not the time. He took James’ pulse again, reassuring himself that the Major wasn’t deteriorating. His breathing looked easier. Not as slow. “Save your energy for not dying, yeah?” He still didn’t know whom he was speaking to.

“John?” Mary’s loud shout preceded the rapid knock.

Sherlock waited for John’s nod before opening the door to admit the paramedics. Then it was a blur of rapid activity, of medical jargon and firm orders, exchanges of vital information and demands of assurance. And when they were gone, John felt the departure like the wind being let out of his sails.

“Will we go back downstairs?”

Like a blow to the back of the knees.

Mary held out a hand and John had the bare presence of mind to glance down at his hands before taking hers. Blood. Both hands. Funny, it hadn’t seemed to be bleeding that much at the time. Maybe it was shifting him to the gurney that did it. John blew out a breath.

“Don’t touch her dress, John, you’ll stain it.”

Like the carpet being pulled out from beneath him.

John glanced at Sherlock and back down at his hands. “Right. Yeah.” He wet his lips and nodded. And stayed where he was. Rooted to that particular spot on the floor.

“I’ll clean him up.” The tone was gentle, but unquestionable. “You head back down and corral the guests. There has to be dancing.”

John read Sherlock’s smile blankly. Fake. Shamming, fake, creepy. Mary didn’t. Or she didn’t care. She pecked John’s cheek again, giving his hands a wide berth. “I’ll see you in a moment, love.”

He nodded again. And the door closed.

“Sit.”

It was a good thing he was next to the bed, because he didn’t bother to check that there was something to sit on. He was shaking. He hadn’t expected that. Hadn’t expected a lot of things, really. How was his waistcoat free from blood spatter?

“John, breathe.”

He gave into the temptation to let his head drop, bracing his elbows on his thighs and sucking in deep, heaving breaths. A cold flannel pressed against the nape of his neck and he hummed through a shudder.

“Just breathe.”

The cool on his neck contrasted sharply with the warm cloth wiping the blood from his hands. Sherlock was thorough. Cleaning both hands carefully and completely, even under and around the ring, that damn shiny new ring, before robbing the cold cloth and wiping at John’s wrists and forehead and temples and neck. Then his hands were dry. His sleeves being returned from cuffed, cufflinks reinstalled.

“John?”

He shook his head and blinked up at Sherlock. “What did I just do?”

“Saved a life,” Sherlock said simply.

“No,” John shook his head. That wasn’t it. That wasn’t the question. That wasn’t what he meant. What did he mean? What was he even saying? “What do I… Did you mean it?”

Sherlock blinked at him.

“I can’t… I don’t think…”

Sherlock’s palm wrapped around the nape of his neck and drew their foreheads together in a quiet act of comfort. Of calm.

“Did you mean it? That you’d never do it?”

Sherlock sighed. “Of course I meant it.”

John blew out a long and heavy breath, pressing his eyes shut, trying to rally, trying to pull back the frayed edges. How did it get so out of control? Why couldn’t he keep a grip on everything? It was like watching sand slip through his fingers and trying to catch it with a tightened fist. “You know. Tell me you know.”

“Of course I know.” Sherlock infused the sentence with just the right amount of haughty disdain to draw a small laugh from him. “Enough.”

John sat back when Sherlock released his neck, carefully straightening his tie and adjusting his waistcoat needlessly. Then Sherlock extended a hand, just the one, and tugged John to his feet.

“John?” Sherlock held out his hand, palm up.

“Hm?”

“Gun.”

“Oh.” He’d forgotten. Or he’d gotten used to it, was too comfortable with it. He handed over the sig and the clip. “Give it to Greg, yeah?”

Sherlock gave him a scathing look. “Please.”

Then he was wordlessly helped back into his morning coat, and Sherlock checked to be sure he was presentable. “Can’t miss your own party, can you?”

“Obviously not.” Sherlock opened the door and gestured John through. “Have to get you back to Mary.”

John nearly tripped over his own feet. He glanced at the carpet as if to blame it for the stumble, even though he knew. He knew that he didn’t know. Have to get you back to Mary… They were right, the proverbial they. It never was the fall that’d kill you. It was always the sudden stop at the end.


End file.
